


Desperate Measures

by SailorChibi



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 10k of porn, Bondage, Butt Plugs, Incest, M/M, Mycroft can't mind his own business, Teasing, Threesome - M/M/M, Toys, dub con, fortunately Sherlock and John are willing to teach him, he needs to learn a lesson for once, holmescest, it's pure sex guys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-28
Updated: 2013-05-08
Packaged: 2017-12-03 22:12:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 10,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/703196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SailorChibi/pseuds/SailorChibi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft has been trying to help John and Sherlock along into a relationship by giving them subtle hints and nudges, but frustratingly enough neither one of the two idiots are reacting the way he wants them to. It's time for drastic measures: Mycroft is out to make his baby brother jealous by seducing himself an army doctor.</p><p>Or at least, that's the plan until Sherlock walks in.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Sherlock belongs to Moffat, Gatiss, and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.
> 
> For a prompt on the BBC kink meme.

Mycroft Holmes is a busy man. His attention, such as it is, is always in demand, and so there are often days where, in spite of what his younger brother seems to think, he doesn’t have a chance to sit down from morning until late at night. For this reason, while he normally pays close attention when his faithful assistant - she’s chosen the name Charlotte today - is reciting his schedule for the next couple of days, today his focus has wandered a little from exhaustion and hunger. After all, imperative though it may be that he knows what’s coming well in advance so that he can prepare for it, today he’s just not interested in meetings and dinners and appointments and work, and it’s harder than he expected to remain still.

“You have a meeting scheduled with the prime minister tomorrow morning, and then dinner with Sir Charles to talk about the new trade agreement,” Charlotte concludes, glancing up at him with that wry little smile that means she knows very well he wasn’t listening. It doesn’t really matter: she’ll have e-mailed him all of the details and she’ll be there to make sure he actually shows up on time, but the fact remains that he’s still being rude and he nods at her.

“My apologies for being so distracted,” he says. “I’ve been wondering about my brother.”

“Yes, I’m afraid there’re no new updates.” She doesn’t even need to glance at her mobile to know that. “All of the surveillance we have on them suggests that they remain only friends. During their last meal together, Holmes left midway through to chase down a suspect for a case, and your attempt to encourage them to spend the night in the same bed at that hotel ended in Dr Watson sleeping in a chair and the two of them arguing when Holmes refused to sleep in the bed. Furthermore, Dr Watson went on a date with a fellow doctor from the surgery he works at just last week. A -” she checks her phone, more for show than because she doesn’t know the name “- Doctor Mary Morstan, I believe. She’s an upcoming paediatrician. Would you like us to do something about her, sir?”

That is the question, isn’t it? Mycroft pauses momentarily to think. The thing is, John Watson is good for Sherlock Holmes. Very good. Well, John is a good man, period, exactly the sort of man that any woman would be fortunate to have. And therein lies the problem: it’s only a matter of time before John meets someone who is interested in pursuing a full time relationship and who can put up with Sherlock long enough to coax John away. A future where Sherlock is left on his own all over again, with no faithful companion that he actually likes to keep him out of trouble, is a dismal one. The logical recourse is to encourage a relationship to flourish between the two men.

It’s a pity that Sherlock and John are both so _bloody_ stubborn.

“No,” he says at last. “No, I believe that I will handle this one myself, my dear. Sherlock might begin to wonder if Doctor Morstan loses interest so suddenly after only one date and I’ll never hear the end of it if he figures out that we helped the situation along and prevented him from chasing her away himself. Thank you, you are dismissed.”

Charlotte nods and rises gracefully, walking out of the office. She’ll remain in her own little office until he summons her or something requires her attention. Mycroft is left alone to think more deeply on the matter, though officially he’s working his way through a mountain of paperwork. As long as Sherlock persists in pretending that he doesn’t want John in _that way_ there is a risk that John will become involved with someone else. John is, of course, starting to reach that point in his life where he’ll be looking to settle down, regardless of whether that’s with a woman or his flatmate. He won’t make the first move between them, and at this rate Sherlock won’t bring himself to admit anything until it’s too late. It would be just like his brother to cause a great deal of unnecessary drama just because he can’t admit he’s fallen in love.

In an attempt to avoid this scenario from coming true, Mycroft has implemented many plans with the ultimate goal of getting them to see the error of their ways. But irritatingly enough, none of them seem to be coming to fruition: either deliberately or unknowingly or through some odd combination of both, every plan thus far has been derailed in some way. The time has come for Mycroft to take drastic measures. Nothing motivates his little brother better than a bit of jealousy, Mycroft knows that from experience. Sherlock has always been notoriously possessive and that extends to humans which he considers to be his, such as the detective inspector or the landlady. John is unquestionably a part of that. 

One would think that all of those women would be enough to inflame said jealousy but no, Sherlock doesn’t consider them to be enough of a threat to matter. He knows – or believes, at least – that John will never be interested in any of them to the point that he will leave Sherlock. The trick, then, is to bring forth a companion who _is_ considered to be suitable competition, one that has the potential to give John the kind of life that he adores. Better still is a companion who has had a previous grievance with Sherlock, particularly in the matter of jealousy, a companion that will cause an automatic reaction.

Fortunately Mycroft knows just the man.

He begins tidying his desk automatically, locking away the files that can’t be left out and putting the most urgent ones aside to take him with him to work on later, after he’s settled this matter once and for all. He stands up and pulls on his coat, buttoning it absently. He picks up his umbrella and his files and moves towards the door, even though it’s at least three or four hours before he normally leaves the office. That’s alright, though; he has something much more important on the agenda tonight.

Mycroft is going to seduce himself a doctor.


	2. Chapter 2

It is always easy to get into 221 Baker Street. Mycroft waits until his car has glided away and makes sure that no one is paying attention before he climbs the stairs and skilfully picks the lock with an ease that would no doubt surprise many people. He does have a key, of course, forged for him by the last locksmith who came to change the locks at Sherlock’s request, but this way provides a bit of a challenge and it's always so amusing to see the annoyed look on Sherlock's face afterwards. Mrs Hudson's flat is quiet as he lets himself in: he knows that the woman is out for the evening, visiting an ailing sister out in the country, and that's an unexpected stroke of good fortune. At least he won’t have to think up a ruse and really, it's much easier when he doesn't have to deal with one of the few people who insist on being unfailingly loyal to Sherlock.

The flat is an absolute mess, unsurprisingly, with papers and half-completed experiments and the remains of clothing and stage make-up strewn all over the place. Sherlock left in a hurry, Mycroft deduces, and in disguise, no doubt for one of his cases. He picks his way across the room and settles down in a chair that faces the door, allowing him to see the whole room at the same time. He sets his umbrella down by his thigh, never more than an arm's reach away, and then he waits. He's timed it well, of course, and within about ten minutes he hears the sound of footsteps on the stairs and Doctor John Watson walks into the room.

John doesn't notice Mycroft's presence right away, giving Mycroft the chance to surreptitiously look him over. He’s wearing clothing that no longer fits him quite so well; running around with Sherlock has improved his appetite and given him muscle where before there was none. There's more grey in his hair than usual and new lines are visible on his face, blue eyes looking weary and exhausted. When he turns around and sees Mycroft, however, all of that disappears in a wake of surprise. 

"Jesus Christ!" he bursts out, hand instinctively flying to his side to grab a gun that he no longer carries. "Mycroft, what the hell are you doing here?"

"Good evening John," Mycroft says calmly, like it's perfectly normal to break into someone's flat and wait for them to come home. "How are you doing this evening?"

"How am I - I'm fine. Just. Fine." John rubs a hand over his face and sighs. It's not hard to deduce that the last thing he wants for the evening is to have to listen to Sherlock and Mycroft sniping at each other. "Sherlock's not here. I got a text from him earlier saying he has a new case and he ran off, though I'm sure you already knew that. I don't know when he'll be back."

"I was aware," Mycroft replies. "I'm willing to wait for him." The implicit "if you don't mind" is not added to the end of his sentence but it's still there, and John is too much of a gentleman to say that yes he really does mind, and in the end John just gives a resigned nod and trundles into the kitchen to make tea. Mycroft listens to these sounds with a growing smirk, pleased at how the situation is developing. According to his surveillance team Sherlock will return to the flat within about forty-five minutes. That gives him ample time to begin seducing John. Things don't need to go terribly far, after all. Just far enough so that Sherlock will think Mycroft has a genuine interest in the man.

"Here," John says, shuffling back into the room with two mugs of tea. He thrusts one in Mycroft's direction - a dash of milk, just the way Mycroft likes it - and slumps down into his chair, automatically reaching for the telly remote. He flips it on and to all appearances becomes instantly absorbed into the programme, but Mycroft can tell that actually he is very aware of the rising tension in the room. Mycroft makes no effort to hide his smile as he sips at the tea, which is perfect. Really, John is worth keeping around just for his ability to make an excellent cup of tea every time.

"To be frank, I did not come here to speak just to Sherlock," he says after a few minutes of silence.

"Oh. Really." It's fascinating to watch the way John's shoulders tense slightly, like he's expecting a blow of some sort. Body language can tell so much. 

"Yes. Tell me, John, how are you enjoying life with my brother?"

John lets out an aggrieved sigh. "I'm not spying for you, Mycroft. My answer still hasn't changed after all this time if that's what you were wondering." He sounds cross. "If that's what you want you can leave."

So _loyal_. It’s really quite remarkable. “Admirable, John, but no, I’m afraid that’s not why I’m here. I know you are unfathomably loyal to my brother.” He watches as John’s head turns a little so that John can see him out of the corner of his eye. He says, “I confess that my motive is far more selfish than that. You see, by keeping as close a watch over Sherlock as I do that means I’ve also had the opportunity to watch you in action, so to speak. You are a very interesting man, John. I can understand why Sherlock is so smitten with you.”

“I see,” John says slowly, no doubt wondering where Mycroft is going with this. He remains sitting as Mycroft stands and walks over to him and only rises to his feet when Mycroft is close, only inches away. His composure in the face of a man who can make many tremble just from his presence alone only serves to make Mycroft savour the situation even more, and when he reaches out and pulls John Watson into a kiss, he has to admit that his motive may no longer be entirely selfless.


	3. Chapter 3

It lasts for only a few brief seconds before John breaks away, looking a little dazed. Under the circumstances Mycroft can’t blame him, but he also doesn’t want to give John too much time to think about the possible ramifications. He maintains eye contact and leans forward, brushing their lips together again as a suggestion. Only then does he pull back and leave just a hint of space between them. John looks pensive now, half-lifting one hand as though he might touch his lips. His face is momentarily unreadable, eyes staring hard into Mycroft’s. And then he takes a deep breath, seemingly coming to a decision, and his whole body relaxes.

This time he is the one who kisses Mycroft, and Mycroft is only too happy to let it happen. John is warm and strong under his fingers and he can’t resist sliding a hand around to John’s back, spreading it widely over the base of the man’s spine. It’s tempting to allow his hand to fall lower, but he’s not sure if that would be too much too fast. Mycroft is no virgin, but it’s been a very long time since he had sex with anyone just for pleasure. And right now, watching the way John’s blue eyes flutter open as they part again, he knows that this is not just about Sherlock anymore. 

He wants this.

“A very interesting man,” he repeats, deliberately making his voice a low rumble, enjoying the way John’s cheeks flush darker with arousal.

“Mycroft,” John says and he sounds just a little bit breathless. “Are you… you’ve never expressed an interest in me before. Why now?”

“I was never certain my advance would be reciprocated,” he says. Some form of the truth is better than an outright lie and technically it _is_ true, though not in the way that John is thinking. He’s known that John is bisexual for a while now. But he also knows that John belongs to Sherlock, and that means even if he wanted this to be real it would never last. Sherlock would force John to choose, and John will always choose Sherlock. Even now Mycroft is surprised that it has got this far, that John hasn’t pushed him away yet.

“Oh.” John smiles at that, running his tongue over his lower lip in a way that seems deliciously flirtatious regardless of whether he meant it like that or not. “I suppose you’ve heard me saying that I’m not gay.” He sounds almost bashful to be repeating the words that might as well have been his motto. 

“I think that everyone in London has heard you say that, John.” And then, just because not even Mycroft Holmes is immune to temptation when it wears the face of John Watson, he does slide his hand lower, cupping John’s delectable arse. The muscles are tight, he notices immediately, yet firm and bouncy in his greedy hand. Better yet, it prompts the sweetest little moan to fall from John’s lips.

“God. We’re wearing too many clothes,” he says, his hands tightening on Mycroft’s waist.

“So you want this?” The question comes out before Mycroft can stop it, a sudden burst of uncertainty that is utterly foreign to him and could ruin everything. Fortunately John seems to find it appealing because he smiles and lifts a hand, curling it into the little hairs at the base of Mycroft’s neck. He tugs gently and Mycroft shudders.

“If you’re really serious about this, I am,” John says. “Are you? This isn’t just about some... rivalry between you and Sherlock is it?”

Mycroft doesn’t hesitate. “No, of course not.”

John nods. “Then we’re wearing too many clothes.” To prove it, his hands slide off of Mycroft and he grips the bottom of his jumper, lifting the hem and pulling it over his head in one smooth movement. Whatever he sees on Mycroft’s face at the sight of all that skin makes him grin and he reaches out, gently sliding Mycroft’s coat down his shoulders. He starts on the tiny buttons of Mycroft’s shirt, patiently making his way down. Every brush of his knuckles against the bare flesh underneath makes Mycroft want to pin him to the sofa. He controls himself, just barely, and shrugs his shirt off once it’s fully unbuttoned.

“The bedroom?” he suggests.

“Too far. Here.” John guides him around and down onto the sofa. It proves to be an excellent idea, one that Mycroft is in full support of, especially when John promptly climbs on top of him. He straddles Mycroft’s lap, resting his knees on either side of Mycroft’s thighs with his bum resting on Mycroft’s lap. Their erections are inches apart and Mycroft grips John’s hips, fighting the urge to crush John against him, to rut frantically until it’s too much and they both come. He tries not to think about the fact that Sherlock might walk in at any moment and they’ll never get that far.

“John,” he gasps, the word rising into a moan when John leans down and nips lightly at his throat, teeth teasing the sensitive skin. He wants to say something about marks and how there can’t be any in a visible place, but the words get lost on the way to his mouth and it comes out as a mumbled hum of pleasure instead. John grins and sits back.

“Good?” he says smugly, already knowing the answer. “What do you like, Mycroft? I want to know exactly what makes you come apart at the seams. Tell me in as much detail as you can, and knowing you that must be a lot.” He runs his hands up Mycroft’s belly and pinches at his nipples, adding a little twist that makes Mycroft jerk. “You might as well tell me. I’ve got experience in taking you Holmes men apart, and I’ll find every single one on my own and tease at my leisure if you don’t.”

It’s a testament to how sinfully amazing John is that Mycroft doesn’t even notice what’s wrong with that statement. At first. He’s not so far gone that he doesn’t notice the door opening or the sudden gust of cold air that makes him shiver for an entirely different reason. Slowly the door closes and he hears a low voice chuckling, not the response he’s expecting or wants. His eyes pop open and he looks up at John in alarm, suddenly aware of how vulnerable he is in his current position. John stares back at him silently, giving nothing away, and only then does Mycroft look over towards the door.

“Hello, Mycroft,” Sherlock says, a smirk on his face. “How nice of you to join us.”


	4. Chapter 4

Mycroft’s first instinct is actually a very human one. He wants to thrash and get out from under John and find some way to pretend that his baby brother hasn’t just walked in on them. Fortunately, Mycroft has spent years beating down his instincts. This is, after all, exactly what he wanted, even if he is more caught off guard by the situation than he wanted to be. He relaxes slowly, even drums up a pleasant smile, and works hard to pretend that he is here because he wants to be and not because John is still pinning him to the sofa and shows no signs of moving anytime soon.

“Sherlock,” he says, allowing his gaze to flick automatically over Sherlock’s face and clothing, analyzing. As expected he’s been out at a crime scene, but he’s solved it already: a domestic murder-suicide from the looks of it. One of those cases Sherlock would term ‘frightfully boring’.

“You really are becoming predictable in your old age,” says Sherlock, striding a bit closer, just close enough that he can trail a gloved hand up John’s arm. John leans into the contact and doesn’t seem to mind when Mycroft goes stiff underneath him as a result. “I told John that you would be coming. He didn’t believe me, not about this, but I said you would and here you are.” His smile is not friendly, has more ice to it than Mycroft has seen in years, and for the first time something in Mycroft’s stomach curls up.

“My relationship, such as it is, with John is none of your business,” Mycroft says. “I came to -”

“Do you really think I am that foolish? I’ve known about your little plans for months, Mycroft. You’re not nearly as subtle as you think you are. What exists between John and me is _none of your business_.” Sherlock is hovering now, eyes burning with cold anger. “Whether we remained friends or became more was our choice. But you couldn’t leave it alone, could you? Couldn’t stop meddling and trying to adjust the world to suit your desires. You’ve tried to have your hand in my life for years and I tolerated it, but not about this. Not ever about this.” His hand squeezes tightly on John’s shoulder. 

“You know,” John says almost casually, “I really did think Sherlock was just being a paranoid git. When he told me about the dates and plans you’d set up I figured that was as far as you’d go.” There is something in his eyes that Mycroft does not like. “This, though, this is really pushing the line. I can’t believe you tried to seduce me just so that Sherlock could walk in on us. That’s just not on, Mycroft. You should have stayed away.”

“John, really, I was only trying to do what’s best for my brother.” Mycroft’s heart is beating a smidge more rapidly than he’d like. 

“Save it,” John says flatly. “I don’t want to hear it. I gave you a chance to walk away from this and you just kept going, so sure that you were one step ahead of Sherlock. It’s your own bloody fault.”

Mycroft remembers, now, the tentative question (“this isn’t just about some rivalry between you and Sherlock?”) and his own cocky reply (“no, of course not”). He wants to tell them that he wasn’t lying, not completely, but the words stick in his throat. He knows they won’t help, and worse the admission will only give extra ammunition. His mind races, searching for some way out of this, but al he can think about is that he was too blinded by his own desires to realize the trap he’s walked into: something that he has, on occasion, accused Sherlock of having done. The irony is not lost on him.

“I’ll leave,” he says, hearing the edge of bitterness to his own words. How has this gone so wrong so quickly? He’ll need to go back to the office and examine the surveillance footage, figure out how Sherlock caught on. His mind is already there when he says, “Move aside, John.”

But John doesn’t move and Sherlock’s smirk only grows wider. “I don’t think so. You’re not getting off that easily. Literally.” And John’s hand wanders between their thighs and cups Mycroft’s cock. It’s gone soft while they were talking, but under John’s touch it begins to harden again. Mycroft’s breath catches in surprise.

“He likes this,” says John and Sherlock hums, leaning down to lick a hot, wet stripe up John’s neck. He murmurs something in John’s ear and then straightens, disappearing in the direction of his bedroom.

“John, you don’t have to do this. You can let me up,” Mycroft says hastily. Because he has no illusions: a lifetime of working behind the scenes has not left him with the skills or muscularity necessary to beat John Watson in a fight, especially not when John is watching him with a glint in his eyes that means he has no hesitation about being a little more firm if necessary.

“I’m sure I could. Contrary to your belief, I don’t do everything Sherlock tells me to do,” comes the mild reply. The fingers stroking his cock never pause and Mycroft can feel himself beginning to respond more, his erection fitting nicely into the palm of John’s hand. It’s enough to make Mycroft swallow a groan. John’s eyes dart to his face and a smile tugs at the corner of his lips, though the hot glare of anger remains. “You really should have left. But don’t worry, Mycroft.” He squeezes and rubs his thumb firmly over the head, making Mycroft’s hips buck helplessly. “We’re going to make sure you learn your lesson.”


	5. Chapter 5

For once in his life, Mycroft Holmes is actually speechless. He stares up at John and realizes that he literally has no words to defend himself, and worse yet that he doesn't even want to. John's words and actions are causing a very pleasant sensation to build in his body, and it's like nothing he's ever experienced before. He feels helpless and it's bewilderingly exciting. Like he knows what Mycroft is thinking, John gives him a slow, wicked smile and slides backwards, putting first one foot down on the floor and then the other. The absence left by his warm weight makes Mycroft feel oddly unsettled and he doesn’t move until John reaches down and gently puts a hand under his arm, tugging.

"Come on," he says. "Sherlock is waiting."

Mycroft stands up obediently on legs that don't seem to want to work properly, his mouth dry, heart racing. This is the time to make a run for it if he truly doesn't want this. He knows Sherlock and John - or, well, he _thinks_ he knows them well enough to know that neither man would follow: they'd think that Mycroft had learned his lesson without any further instruction on their part and let the matter go as long as he kept himself out of their personal life. He looks over at the door and John's hand tightens around his arm, rendering the moment lost. He pulls Mycroft along, heading towards Sherlock's bedroom, and although Mycroft can feel the beginning skitter of true panic setting in he obediently stumbles after.

Sherlock's room is surprisingly neat, the sheets looking like they've been freshly washed, the covers turned down. John pushes him down on the bed with a firm palm to Mycroft's chest. He lands hard and before he can gather his bearings, Sherlock is there on his other side and they're both grabbing his wrists and affixing them to the bedposts with handcuffs. The inside of the metal cuffs feels surprisingly smooth and plush; no matter how hard Mycroft pulls he knows he won't hurt himself. That's got to be John's doctor side, he thinks, unable to resist giving an experimental tug. Given time he could pick the locks, but he suspects that both men know better than to leave him alone long enough for that to happen.

"What do you think, John?" Sherlock says. His face has taken on a hungry gleam that is utterly unfamiliar to Mycroft and he shivers when Sherlock draws a single finger down his bare chest, close but not quite touching his nipple. "Would you like to go first, do you think?"

John smiles. "I think I will," he says and walks around the bed too pull Sherlock into a hungry kiss, his hands at first freely roaming the other man's body and then working with purpose to divest Sherlock of the button-up shirt he is still wearing. Mycroft watches them, unable to keep from admiring the contrast: stocky, short John with tanned skin and golden hair against the tall lanky Sherlock, all dark curls and pale skin. John's hands cradle Sherlock so carefully, so gently, holding Sherlock against him and Sherlock melts, allowing John to take what he wants.

When Sherlock's shirt is off and laying, forgotten, on the floor, John breaks the kiss only to trail kisses down Sherlock's neck. Sherlock shivers and tilts his head back, eyes fluttering shut. Mycroft swallows hard. His cock is fully hard and throbbing and, although he's not aware of it, he must make some sort of sound because Sherlock and John both turn to look at him. John plants one more kiss on Sherlock's shoulder and then steps away and Sherlock follows, both of them returning to opposite sides of the bed. It makes it impossible to watch both of them and Mycroft finally looks at Sherlock, the one he figures is the more dangerous of the two, so he's unprepared when John clambers onto the bed to join him. He pushes Mycroft forward and settles down behind him so that his thighs are on either side of Mycroft and he's leaning back against John's firm chest. It allows him to feel the hot, hard bulge right against his buttocks.

"You first," John says, resting his hands on Mycroft's belly. He begins unbuckling the belt and pulling the zip down. "I know you've been waiting your chance, love."

Sherlock smirks and grips the trousers, easily sliding them down Mycroft's thighs, leaving only his pants behind. He kneels down on the bed between, easily shoving Mycroft’s legs apart, and leans over, placing his mouth against the fabric, mouthing at it wetly, and John gives a low hum of appreciation as he hooks his own legs over Mycroft’s to keep them spread. Mycroft chokes on a moan, not wanting to give his brother the satisfaction, and tries to look away, but John immediately grabs his head and forces him to look back.

"You're going to watch, Mycroft," he says into Mycroft's ear. "Watch what he's doing to you. This is about him taking back all the years you've thought you knew best. Getting a little of his own back before I take my turn. If you're good you might get a little pleasure from this. If you're not..." A sharp nip to his shoulder underscores the implied threat. "You _will_ keep your eyes on Sherlock."

Those pale eyes are staring up at them when Mycroft looks down, a hint of satisfaction clearly visible. Sherlock licks at his cock and the feel of that sinful heat through the thin cotton of his pants is almost overwhelming. He squirms as Sherlock moves down, rubbing his cheek against the sensitive skin of his inner thighs, testing to see what he responds to the most. At the same time John's hands begin to wander, sliding up the planes of his chest towards his nipples. He takes each half-erect nub between his thumb and index finger and starts to roll them, pinching and tugging lightly. Each time he does it a new little spark of pleasure throbs through Mycroft and it's all he can do to keep watching Sherlock: he hasn't felt this kind of simulation in years, possibly ever, and he clenches his hands helplessly as Sherlock returns to his cock, tracing the outline with a mouthful of spit, making everything hot and wet.

"Bloody gorgeous, isn't he?" John murmurs, voice sounding thick with lust. "You should see him when he's close to orgasm, Mycroft. Nothing in the world can compare. I love to hold him down and bring him to the edge until he's positively sobbing with the need to come. And then I like to ride him until he can't take it anymore and he comes until he collapses. Sometimes it's the only way I can get him to sleep." He pinches hard and Mycroft jerks. "I bet you'd love to see that, wouldn't you? Well you'll know how it feels, soon enough. We’ve been waiting for this and we’re going to take our time.”


	6. Chapter 6

Sherlock’s fingers are long and slender and cold as they creep underneath the waistband of Mycroft’s pants. It’s the last bit of defence he’s got, paltry though it may be, and Mycroft has to bite his lip to keep from protesting when Sherlock slowly begins to pull the soaked fabric down. His cock springs up, hard and leaking, smacking wetly against his belly. The tip is flushed deep red and the foreskin is already drawn back, and Sherlock’s burning gaze never leaves off as he scoots backwards, pulling the pants all the way down his legs. He tosses them somewhere over his shoulder and then presses his hands together, fingertips just brushing his chin, and _looks_.

Mycroft is not a young man anymore. He’s a good few years past his prime, and that’s evident by his softer midsection and the lack of toning in his arms and thighs. It takes all of the control that he has left to keep from squirming under Sherlock’s intent gaze, knowing that his younger brother is methodically picking out every single flaw. Everything that Mycroft has ever wanted to keep hidden is being stripped bare for their perusal and he doesn’t know what to do about it; in here he doesn’t have any of the mechanisms he normally hides behind. His hands close convulsively into fists, breath hitching.

“Sherlock,” John says, and now his voice is soft. His hands sweep across Mycroft’s chest, avoiding his nipples, and splay across his belly just above his cock. Regrettably his arms are just a little too short to reach. 

Pale eyes blink slowly and Sherlock seems to come back to himself. He nods and leans over, reaching towards the stand, and retrieves a brand new tube of lubrication. He makes sure that Mycroft can see what he’s doing as he pops the top and squeezes some of the gel into his hands. “I’ve been waiting for this,” he says, husky and with an edge of a smirk. “I knew you would push the limit sooner or later, Mycroft. You always used to enjoy telling me that I was too curious for my own good, but you should have heeded your own advice.”

His hand moves lower, beneath Mycroft’s parted thighs and in between, finding the dusky pink hole with unerring precision. Mycroft twitches and jerks a little at the touch, light at is. John immediately clasps him tighter, preventing him from moving at all. Sherlock acts as though Mycroft this little exchange hasn’t happened, keeping his strokes with barely any pressure at all, tracing around the entrance, then up over his perineum – pausing to pay extra attention to the little expanse of flesh, like it’s particularly enthralling – and then across his balls. He takes each one into the palm of his hand and rolls them thoughtfully, sliding them around until both are generously covered in lube.

The pleasure is a slow build, so sweet that it almost hurts. Mycroft feels like he can’t breathe, as though all of the air in the room has been sucked out, and John taps him firmly on the chest as a silent reminder. He inhales abruptly and shudders all over, his skin tingling. 

“There you go,” says John, sounding satisfied. “He’s good at this, isn’t he? He can keep it up for hours. Believe me, I know. He tied me down once and fingered me until I cried.”

“John,” Sherlock says and it’s almost a moan, like the memory is too much. His finger finally trails back down and breaches, sliding in just a little before pulling back out, leaving Mycroft feeling wet and _open_ in a way he’s not used to. He squirms again, eyes fluttering shut, short gasps that border on panting falling from his lips. 

“I think he’s ready, Sherlock. Go on, do it,” John says. “God I can’t wait to see you fuck him.”

And now Sherlock is the one breathing hard as he pushes a finger into Mycroft, roughly so that Mycroft has no time to get used to it. He cries out before he can bite down on his lip, the sound filling the air, bouncing off the walls obscenely, and his cheeks flush with embarrassment because he’s never done that before in bed. Sherlock looks up at him with a cocky, knowing smirk and begins twisting his finger around, running it along the inside walls like he’s searching for something, even though he’s careful to not actually hit. The sensation of having something inside is foreign but good and it can’t be ignored, not that he dares to look away from that lustful stare.

“I think I’d like to hear you beg,” says Sherlock. “It’s certainly something you’ve tried to make me do over the years.” He slides his finger out and then in, a parody of what he really wants to do, and the friction is maddening and Mycroft’s suddenly glad for John’s tight grip because he’s not sure he could keep himself from pushing down to get more.

“I bet he begs just as pretty as you do.” John pushes at Mycroft’s shoulders and slides out from underneath him, leaving a pillow that feels oddly cold where his warm body used to be. He unbuckles his trousers and gets rid of the rest of his clothing, including his pants, leaving him gloriously naked. Mycroft doesn’t know whether to stare at him or Sherlock, but John takes the decision from his hands when he slings a leg over Mycroft’s shoulders and settles there on his knees, leaving his cock standing proud over Mycroft’s face, inches from his mouth, blocking his view of Sherlock entirely. John grips the base of his shaft and aims it at Mycroft’s lips, painting his mouth with sticky pre-come, not quite pressing hard enough to push inside. Without even thinking Mycroft licks his lips, the taste bitter and salty, and John’s eyes go dark.

“Fucking hell,” he says hoarsely. “Mycroft, I want... open... _God_...” He lets out a ragged moan as he pushed forward, sliding his cock into Mycroft’s mouth.


	7. Chapter 7

John’s cock is heavy and thick. It feels peculiar, that warm weight resting on his tongue, sliding insistently towards the back of his mouth, something that he has no control over. Mycroft keeps his mouth slack, not sure what is being asked of him, and resists the instinct to burst into a flurry of coughs when the tip strikes the spongy palate at the back of his throat. John seems to sense that he’s wanting too much, however, and grits his teeth as he draws back just a fraction. His free hand has tightened into a fist and he never takes his eyes away from Mycroft.

“Your mouth,” he says, “was _made_ for this.”

“I’m pleased you’ve finally found a decent way to shut him up.” The long finger investigating his body so intimately slides out suddenly and Mycroft gasps, the sound muffled, as Sherlock grips his thighs and pushes them so far apart his muscles protest. It’s the sort of position he never allows himself to be in – even in bed, Mycroft enjoys being in control – but then, what about this situation could be termed normal?

“Be nice, Sherlock,” John says though he looks far too amused by the comment for there to be any real scolding in his voice. He pushes his hips forward a bit and then tilts back, falling instinctively into a very comfortable rhythm of fucking Mycroft's mouth. Mycroft stares up at him, wondering if he should participate or lay here and let them use him like a common whore.

The feeling of _two_ fingers sliding into him, achingly slowly, letting him feel every ridge, decides the matter. He groans around John’s cock and the sight of John moaning as a result of the vibrations is too much. He wants to see more, wants to know if he can cause John Watson to come apart at the seams. He’s not used to this, the last time he gave anyone a blowjob was in his university years and he certainly wasn’t tied down at the time, but he undulates his tongue along the warm flesh, tracing the vein on the underside all the way up to the fraenulum, and is delighted by the way that John jerks as a result, pulling back enough for Mycroft to be able to attend to the matter a little more... enthusiastically.

It seems that John is quite sensitive and Mycroft uses that knowledge to his full advantage. He does his best to ignore Sherlock’s ministrations and uses his tongue to become intimately acquainted with every inch of John’s cock. The taste is still bitter, but not overly unpleasant. And then when John starts moving again, his hips thrusting unconsciously with a soft little whine each time he rocks forward, Mycroft sucks, his cheeks hollowing from the pressure. John moans loudly, and then his breath hitches and he moans even _more_ loudly and Mycroft can feel Sherlock leaning over him, which would put his face at just the right level for John’s arse. Heat makes its way into Mycroft’s cheeks but he doesn’t stop sucking even when his cheeks and throat begin to tire.

“God, you two.” Abruptly John stands up on shaking legs, pulling his cock from Mycroft’s lips and bracing himself against the wall with one hand. His cock hangs a few feet above Mycroft’s face, gleaming with pre-come and saliva. “You’re going to make me come if you keep that up.”

“That’s the point,” Sherlock says. It sounds like he’s laughing.

John apparently thinks so too because he sends a glare over his shoulder. “Bastard,” he says affectionately. “Are you just about done down there?”

And now that Mycroft no longer has the distraction of sucking on John’s cock, he can feel everything Sherlock is doing, pushing two fingers in slowly, spreading them wide, and then drawing them back out with a little twist that is nearly driving Mycroft mad. He shifts his hips without thinking, trying to get a bit more friction, and John chuckles but he doesn’t tell Sherlock to stop. He wraps his hand around his cock again and starts to pull, sliding his fingers through the saliva and spreading it down to his balls. He’s not doing it to come, either, but just because it feels nice and that may be the hottest thing Mycroft has ever seen.

“Hmm,” Sherlock rumbles, “I think we’re ready.”

“Sure? Do I need to check?”

“I have been doing this for a while, John. I think I know how to fuck someone.”

Mycroft has heard Sherlock swear before. In the worst days of Sherlock’s drug addiction and subsequent rehab he heard Sherlock swear a lot. But never like this, never with this connotation, and it’s almost enough to make him moan out loud. He bites his lip hard at the last second to keep it stifled but the sound still emerges, just strangled and broken. This is so _wrong_ and it shouldn’t be affecting him the way it is and he doesn’t know why he wants this so much and he doesn’t, he _doesn’t_ \- 

“Hey.” John kneels beside him with a fluid grace, one hand cupping Mycroft’s cheek, thumb running across his bottom lip and gently tugging it free. “Don’t. It’s alright. It’s just the three of us, and no one is going to judge you here.”

Sherlock’s hand slides up his thigh but he doesn’t say anything or move. He’s waiting and somehow that silence, not annoyed or frustrated or crackling with tension, is better than anything he could have said. Mycroft lets out a shaky breath, takes in a deep one, lets it go. His mind begins to settle, releasing the condemning thoughts of right or wrong, because this is them, him and Sherlock and now John, and all of them have always walked that fine line so why should this be any different?”

“Do it,” he says, surprised at how raspy his voice sounds, “Fuck me, Sherlock.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is an auction going on to support AO3. You can bid on the author of your choice and win a fic written by them especially for you based on whatever prompt you want (within reason), and I'm participating as an author. Click on this link for more information: [AO3 Tumblr Auction](http://ao3auction.tumblr.com/FAQ)

If the order surprises Sherlock, he gives no indication. He simply ducks his head in acknowledgement and spreads Mycroft's thighs a little bit wider, ignoring his brother's slight wince of pain at the additional strain, and shifts around until he's sitting between them with his cock brushing against the soft skin of his buttocks. Mycroft twitches at the feel of that satiny, hard flesh pressing against him but doesn't protest. There is a part of him, small though it may be, that wants this. He wants Sherlock to fuck him and then he wants John to do the same; he wants both of them to put a mark on him that he will never be able to erase. So, in spite of the way it makes his muscles tremble, he lifts one of his legs until his calf is resting on Sherlock's slender shoulder, giving him ample room to move.

For once, Sherlock obeys the unspoken command, taking his cock in hand and lining himself up with Mycroft's hole. He pushes forward just a bit, a little nudge really, allowing the tip of his cock to slip inside before he pulls back out. A thoughtful sound emerges from his throat and he does it again, sliding deeper this time before pausing. He never takes his eyes off of where they're connected, like it's so fascinating he can't bear to look away. Mycroft bites down on his cheek again to keep himself from demanding that Sherlock hurry up. This slow pace insures that he can feel every inch as it splits him open.

"Christ," John breathes roughly and Mycroft opens eyes he didn't even realize he'd closed. John's perfect arse is now turned towards him and even though Mycroft can't see because of how he’s sprawled out, it doesn't take a genius to know that John is now watching Sherlock push into him, too. "That's just fucking perfect right there."

"God you should feel him, John." Sherlock's voice has taken on a ragged quality. "He's so tight. If I didn't know better I'd say he's never been fucked before."

John doesn't say anything in response to that, but he does reach up and tangle his hand into Sherlock's dark curls, pulling him into a deep kiss. Sherlock whimpers in the back of his throat and stops moving, holding perfectly still while his hands come up to grip John's biceps. They kiss for several minutes while Mycroft stares at the ceiling, his hands shaking. The urge to impale himself on Sherlock and _force_ his younger brother to remember that he's here is nearly overwhelming. But he won't do it. It feels too much like giving in, like he's lost that one last barrier to everything that he is, and he's not going to stoop that low. He takes a deep shuddering breath, and fortunately the sound seems to make John remember their surroundings because he breaks off the kiss.

"Keep going," he gasps, resting their foreheads together. "I want you to describe it to me, Sherlock. Tell me everything."

"It's hot," says Sherlock, pushing in another inch. "And slippery from the lube. Even though I stretched him well, it feels like he's clamping down around me. I'm not even sure I'll be able to get my whole cock in." He groans and thrusts hard with his hips, and Mycroft nearly bites through his tongue trying to hold back the yelp that wants to escape. "I can feel him quivering around me. He wants this. He's trying to pull me in."

"Let it happen," John whispers and Sherlock does, he pushes all the way in, his balls coming to rest against the curve of Mycroft's arse. 

"Oh my god," Mycroft says, unable to keep himself silent. He's wide eyed, his body so tense that his muscles are trembling. Sherlock feels enormous. He swears he can feel it all the way up in his chest. If he'd thought two fingers were impossible to ignore he was sorely mistaken.

"Beautiful," says John, like Mycroft hasn't spoken at all. "Come on, sweetheart, I want to see you fuck him. Make him all dirty and sloppy so that when I get my turn I'm fucking you too." 

Sherlock moans and nearly pulls all the way out, leaving just the head of his cock inside, before he shoves back in, so hard that Mycroft's back skids against the sheets and he's pushed up a few inches. He braces himself as best he can against the headboard and then just _holds on_ because this is hard and fast and furious, this is Sherlock when he's taking what he wants just like he does in everything else, except this time Mycroft has no way to hold him back. And it fucking feels marvellous, the sweet drag of Sherlock's cock teasing at his insides, the pace so quick that he barely has time to feel empty before he's full and then empty again. 

"John," Sherlock says.

"I'm here," John says.

"God," Mycroft says, tears forming in his eyes from the pressure, the pleasure, but he refuses to let them fall. Sherlock hasn't struck him once yet in that place, but as soon as the thought crosses his mind Sherlock shifts, just a little, and rams straight in and oh dear _god_ every nerve lights up in Mycroft's body and he jerks, the shout tumbling from his lips before he can stop it. 

"Hmm, he sounds just as lovely as you thought he would," John purrs, guiding Sherlock into another kiss, their mouths working frantically against each other as Sherlock's rhythm falters, pauses for a split second, and then resumes, like he's not sure he wants to approach his peak so quickly. John moans, rutting lightly against Sherlock's thigh, and twists around to look at Mycroft's face. Mycroft only looks at him for a moment before he closes his eyes because he can't bear the thought of anyone seeing him like this.

"Is it good, Mycroft?" John asks.

The only sound Mycroft makes in response is a strangled moan squeezed out reluctantly when Sherlock hits his prostate for a second time, another jolt of pure liquid pleasure that lances through him. His cock stands up straight, an angry red, leaking sticky pre-come all over his belly. He yearns to touch it, to pull himself to completion, and wishes desperately that he could come from prostate stimulation alone. Because he can't and he doubts that Sherlock or John will give him the friction necessary to come and this is like, it's like torture, especially when Sherlock begins fucking him hard and striking his prostate with unerring accuracy on every slide. 

"John," Sherlock says again, and this time he sounds urgent. John turns to him immediately and kisses his cheek, murmuring something in Sherlock's ear that is too quiet to hear. But whatever it is, Sherlock nods grimly and pushes in hard one last time. Mycroft can feel his cock swelling, the feeling foreign, before Sherlock groans loudly, his face twisted in pleasure. A hot wet feeling floods through Mycroft and he squirms.

"Fucking beautiful." John says and it's hard to tell who he's talking about. He wraps an arm around Sherlock's waist, letting Sherlock slump against him, and then he looks over his shoulder at Mycroft with glittering blue eyes and a smirk. "My turn."


	9. Chapter 9

In spite of John’s eager words he gives Sherlock a couple of minutes to recover, though the pause is also likely to give himself a chance to enjoy the anticipation that’s surely building. He strokes Sherlock’s hair and whispers in his ear and plants sweet kisses on his face and neck and shoulders while Sherlock lays in his arms and just breathes, looking like he might not have the strength to do anything else in the foreseeable future. Eventually John practically lifts him up and pulls him out from between Mycroft’s thighs, guiding him down beside Mycroft on the bed. His face is so close to Mycroft’s hips that Mycroft imagines he can feel every exhalation across his aching cock and he shudders, fingers curling, choking back the whine that is so, so close to escaping. 

And John, the bastard, looks at him and smirks, no sign of the good doctor left, just a man who knows what he wants and is going to take it. He crawls up between Mycroft’s thighs and performs a perfunctory check with his index finger, easing it into Mycroft’s twitching hole. After the thorough fucking Mycroft has just received a finger doesn’t feel like nearly enough and he clenches automatically, trying to get more desperately needed stimulation, and John’s face changes into something predatory and hungry. “I can feel you in there, Sherlock. He’s so loose and sloppy and begging for my cock. You fucked him good, my love.”

“Mm, John, I want to see you fuck him,” Sherlock says, propping his head up one arm. 

“Don’t worry, you’re going to,” says John, lining himself up with one hand around the base of his cock. He’s thicker than Sherlock, Mycroft notices immediately, and in spite of how loose he is the penetration burns a little. His eyes squeeze shut with a pained gasp and he feels fingers curling over his hip, the thumb stroking soothing circles, and because of the position it can only be Sherlock, but he doesn’t dare open his eyes to check and see.

“How is he, John?”

“Tight,” John mutters. “Oh fuck, so tight. He’s just like you, Sherlock. You could fuck him all day and his hole would still be gagging for it, christ.” He does something with his hips that makes him slide in the last few inches fast and then he stops, bent over, panting a little. Mycroft can hardly hear him over the sound of his own gasps. John is definitely larger, yes, stretching parts of him that Sherlock didn’t reach, and it feels almost blindingly good.

“How does it feel, Mycroft?”

It takes him a moment to realize that the question is directed at him. Sherlock and John haven’t really spoken to him in a while. Mycroft has to remember how to form words instead of the incoherent moans that want to come out instead. He knows he can’t say nothing, knows Sherlock will keep asking until he gets what he feels is a reasonable answer, so he says, “Good.” And really, that sums up everything that’s boiling through him: he wants to be fucked, he wants John to use him, he wants to come, he wants to fall asleep knowing that there is nothing else he can do, he just _wants_. 

A normal person wouldn’t be able to pick up on any of that, but this is Sherlock and he is, as always, insufferable to the end. “Fuck him hard, John, as hard as you’ve ever fucked me,” he orders. “I want to see him lose control.”

In response, John pulls back and then rams in, so hard that it pushes all of the breath out of Mycroft’s lungs and leaves him flailing for a moment. There is no slow here, not at all like Sherlock until he lost control, John is just as hard and punishing but his face has remained clear and level the whole time. He knows exactly what John's doing and all Mycroft can do is hold on, or try to, but he knows that this game is one that he is not going to win. After Sherlock, his whole body feels overly sensitive and each strike against his prostate, the head rubbing ruthlessly over that little knot, is making his nerves sing.

“Mycroft.” It’s Sherlock, having crawled up the bed until their faces are close, and for a moment Mycroft remembers back to when they were young and small and Sherlock used to climb into his bed at night, until John brings him back to reality with one rough thrust that makes his back arch. Sherlock breathes out for him and leans in, their lips practically touching, and says, “Just let go.”

Just let go. Even in the middle of the most thorough fucking he’s ever received that seems like it’s impossible. Mycroft shakes his head, just once, wildly, and something in Sherlock’s cold eyes softens. He shifts and then long fingers are wrapping around Mycroft’s cock. He jerks, shocked, and cries out, and then it seems like he can’t stop it. He tries to bite down on his lip but Sherlock brings his other hand up and firmly tugs his lip free, allowing the sound of his helpless moans to fill the room. John groans loudly at the sounds and his rhythm stutters briefly, his chest heaving.

“God, you two,” he says, panting.

“Let go,” Sherlock says again, his voice a deep rumble. “I want to see it. See you.” He’s not good at comfort and never has been but maybe he doesn’t have to be, not here. He twists his hand and slowly slides it up, watching Mycroft’s face closely, and Mycroft stares back, knowing that every flicker of emotion is passing over his face but for the first time feeling like maybe there is no point in trying to stop it. Sherlock’s lips quirk faintly at that. “Just let go.”


	10. Chapter 10

Here, in this room with his younger brother and his younger brother’s partner, shuttered in and enclosed from the rest of the world, Mycroft finally realizes that he does not have a choice in the matter. Sherlock has always had his own methods for getting what he wants, and this is no different. John is perfectly still, pushed as far inside Mycroft as he can go, and Mycroft can feel every inch of him. The burning has abated but he’s full to bursting, every ridge and vein of John’s cock conforming perfectly against his insides. And Sherlock’s fingers are curled so gently around his cock, the thumb rubbing lightly over the slit like Sherlock isn’t even aware of what he’s doing, even though Mycroft knows there is nothing about this situation that Sherlock is unaware of.

Letting go goes against everything that he is. It's terrifying. He breathes in slow, sharp pants, trying unsuccessfully to control the fine trembling in his hands that can't be masked. He wants John to tell Sherlock to leave off and stop staring at him but he knows that John won't, not now, and that means Sherlock can see everything because he can't hide it anymore. He blinks slowly and then closes his eyes, allowing his head to tilt back in a silent concession because he can't bring himself to say it out loud. Even now that is beyond him, but it doesn't seem to matter. Sherlock exhales with a soft hiss of triumph and even though Mycroft's eyes are shut he can still picture the flush of satisfaction across his cheekbones, the way his eyes will gleam.

"Alright?" John says, his voice noticeably roughened and low.

"Yeah. Fuck him hard, John."

John rocks his hips, swaying almost gently into Mycroft. "You think he's ready?"

"Yes," Sherlock says, squeezing his hand tighter round Mycroft's cock. "But even if he's not, the decision has been taken out of his hands. That's what this was all about, after all. You have no control here, Mycroft, not anymore. You think you can do whatever you want, regardless of the effect it has on everyone around you. At least I don't try to play god. I don't intervene with people who are perfectly capable of getting on without me. I want you to leave me and John alone from now on unless we actually require your help." He eases up on his grip and instead forms his hand into a tight ring, so that the movement of John's fucking pushes his cock through Sherlock's hand. The feeling is glorious.

"Oh god." John groans with difficulty and rucks Mycroft's thighs up, nearly balancing them on his shoulders. It hurts but the ache in Mycroft's muscles only adds to the overall experience. "Sherlock, I don't think I can hold out much longer."

"It's alright, John. I want to see you fuck him until he can't hold back and then I want you to come inside him. Maybe we'll fetch a plug, keep him like that all night." Sherlock is practically purring.

Mycroft moans. He can't hold it back anymore. The idea of being kept here all night, trapped and helpless, plugged full of come is just too much. His body is tingling from head to toe with overstimulation and he doesn't know how much more he can take. He squirms restlessly and whimpers, the shame of the experience falling to the side, unimportant, when John rewards him with a particularly deep thrust that nudges his prostate just right. Sherlock curls in closer and begins whispering encouragement, fantasies, describing what John does to him, what Sherlock does to John, what they would both like to do to Mycroft the next time he sticks his nose in where it doesn't belong, and every word paints a lurid set of images across Mycroft's mind.

"Fuck, I'm going to - _fuck_ \- " John is gasping and his cock is swelling, getting even larger, and Sherlock's hand is tightening again and speeding up. He moves without warning, and suddenly Mycroft feels another touch between his buttocks, a long finger sliding curiously around his stretched entrance, pushing inside along with John's cock on the next downward thrust. The feeling is unbearable and pushes him ruthlessly over the edge.

He climaxes hard, his back arching and lips parting in a silent scream as he spills violently over Sherlock's hand. It seems to go on for ages, and he is just barely aware of John shuddering and coming deeply inside of him. They stay like that for several minutes, John panting and Mycroft shivering and Sherlock's eyes wide with fascination, until John braces himself against the bed and slowly eases out. Sherlock keeps his finger inside, though, and as soon as John is out he quickly slides in another to keep as little come as possible from spurting out. He says something to John in a low tone and John laughs and gets up with an agility that suggests he hasn't just fucked someone silly, and then Mycroft jolts as something cold and hard is eased between his cheeks.

"Easy," John says, sprawling out on the bed beside him. He pats Mycroft's belly in a manner that is clearly meant to be soothing.

"You..." Mycroft says and he wants to make it into some form of protest, he really does, but it doesn't work. The words get lodged in his throat and what emerges is instead a strangled whimper. He looks down the bed at his brother, kneeling between his stretched and aching thighs with a satisfied smirk on his face.

"You actually look pretty," Sherlock says musingly, cocking his head to the side. 

"He's not the only one." John holds up a hand and beckons to him, and Sherlock crawls around and up the bed until he can hover over John and bring their lips together in a gorgeous, filthy kiss. Mycroft stares at them unashamedly until they part and Sherlock smirks at him as he wiggles in close to John's side, leaving John in the middle between them. 

“Mycroft,” Sherlock says, “do you have anywhere you need to be?”

In between the drifting, sweet silence that has overtaken his mind, Mycroft tries to think about his schedule for the night and the next day, what’s he got to do and where he’s got to be. He knows – well, he’s fairly certain – that John and Sherlock would release him if he claimed a pressing engagement. It’s a surprise for him to realize that he doesn’t want to go, that he wants to stay where he is, he wants to sleep the night through with them and let whatever happens in the morning happen, whether it’s another thorough fucking or a shower and being sent on his way. He locks eyes with first Sherlock and then John and thinks about letting go.

“No,” he says at last. “No, I think I’m fine right here.”


End file.
